Sometimes, she thinks she's just a conquest. But then he smiles at her, and she remembers pushing him into mud-puddles and all of their fights, and she remembers the way it felt when he held her in his arms, and she loves him. -—a series of next-gen one-shots. First up, LilyiiTeddy. Second, LucyLorcan.

They're seven years old when they first meet, and Lucy finds Lorcan insufferable.

"Missed me, missed me! Now you gotta kiss me!"

And maybe the reason that Lucy stands up is because she is so tired of him picking at her and teasing her and pulling on her brown braids that curl at the ends. Lorcan doesn't even seem to realize what's about to happen until Lucy grabs his arm, preventing him from running away. "Okay, I'll kiss you." And she does, and then she pulls away and let's him go and they both start making gagging noises.

(They secretly like it.)

When they're twelve, she's sorted into Slytherin and he's sorted into Gryffindor (and it's a clear sign that says "THIS CAN'T BE" but they're too young to really realize). "Where the brave dwell," Lorcan insists on telling her the next day as he walks along side of her as they head towards her potions class (even though his herbology class is all the way across the campus from potions).

"Gryffindors are stupid," is all Lucy says, as they reach her potions class. She snatches her books from him (the ones he had insisted he carried for her) and enters the classroom without another word to him.

That's the day they fall in love with each other (or really, Lorcan falls in love with her).

She's fourteen when her heartbreaks, but she doesn't let anyone see it.

"Really?" Lucy asks, smiling sickly-sweet at him. He nods eagerly, and beside him Jude rolls her eyes. "You can take your apology and shove it up your ass." Lucy pauses at the door and glances back at them. "I hope it was worth it." And that's the only emotion she gives them.

She cries herself to sleep that night wrapped in Lorcan's arms.

And then she's seventeen—and she's grown into herself. She's not an awkward thirteen year old girl with knobby knees who isn't quite sure how to use her power of manipulation. No, this isn't Luce anymore, it's Lucy Weasley and she is the most beautiful girl in the world. Her hair is curled and she's got every single boy of Hogwart's wrapped around her tiny little finger, and the girls glare and the boys collectively sigh because they have no chance, and Lucy smirks (she's practiced).

She is the ruler of the world, or well, Hogwarts at least.

And Lucy Weasley, Queen, doesn't need anyone. She's gotten used to being alone, likes being alone.

But still, Lorcan pursues her the way no one else does—whole-heartily, not like those other boys who want her dress off and nothing more; No, Lorcan wants Lucy's heart, and maybe sometimes she thinks he's far to reckless and careless and too caring of himself and his appearance, and he's sloppy and a total flirt and sometimes, she thinks she's just a conquest. But then he smiles at her, and she remembers pushing him into mud-puddles and all of their fights, and she remembers the way it felt when he held her in his arms, and she loves him.

Lucy isn't sure how to love, but she loves Lorcan.

And she swears to herself she'll never tell him.

She's seventeen and beautiful and the Queen when she breaks that promise.

He's flirting with a fellow Gryffindor girl who's name Lucy hadn't been bothered to learn, and Lucy can tell there's something there, something going on beneath the surface: There's more to that relationship than meets the eye and it infuriates Lucy to no end, because Lorcan is hers and he's the one she grew up with, the one she played with and hated but loved at the same time, he's both her worst enemy and best friend, and he's held her when she cried and admired her laugh and walked her to class, and Lorcan Scamander is Lucy Weasley's.

So she marches over there, completely ignores the sixth year Gryffindor girl, and tells him so.

"It's too late—you're too late."

And then Lucy walks away.

She cries herself to sleep that night (and there's no one there to hold her).

Two years later, fate finally works in her favour (not that she believes in fate).

They bump into each other in the street and she spills her coffee all over his white tee shirt, and then recognizes him and almost cries.

"You made your choice, Lor." And her voice cracks at the use of his nickname and dammit, why did she use his nickname? Lorcan steps forward again; he's always been one to push at boundaries and cross lines, while Lucy was the one that sat back and manipulated people into doing it for her.

"I chose wrong, Luce." And he doesn't even say please, doesn't plead with her, doesn't beg for a second chance. He snatches up her wrist and tugs her to him, and in one swift motion his lips are on his. She screams at herself to pull away, but for every rule she's ever made for herself, Lorcan Scamander was always the exception, even now, twelve years after they first met.

(and friends are always the best lovers, they say. not that she would ever admit they were friends before).

He dies the day before their wedding.

"There was nothing we can do," and visions of him flat-lining before her eyes haunt her and she wakes up screaming, sweat rolling down from her hairline and her sheets pooled around her legs, twisted up in an mess of white and blood stains the white sheets red and no, she thinks, not all that I have left of him too, oh God no. And then she's screaming and crying and she calls Molly up and "I'm pregnant and I think I just lost it. Molly, please come over. Please Molly," and the rest of her words are undecipherable because she's screaming and crying and begging for Lorcan to come back.

She knows he's not.

The baby is fine, "it was just some spotting, sweetheart," and then five months later the baby is born and it's a boy and she holds her breathe because the air is silent moments after she's finally pushed her baby out, and then—WAAAAAAH.

Lucy inhales.

"Your son," a nurse hands her baby to her. "What's his name?" The nurse is young, most likely still an intern, with wide-bright eyes and obviously she's still un-scarred by the world, and Lucy loses herself in the memories of herself at seven years old, kissing Lorcan Scamander for the first time. Lucy cries.

"His name is Lorcan. Lorcan Scamander." She manages and then takes her baby, and her son does the most precular thing: He smiles and Lucy cries harder because she's so happy, but so full of sadness at the same time, and "I love you, Lor," and she's not just talking to the baby in her arms with her should've-been-husband's blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He's a mirror image of her father and Molly takes Lucy's free hand in her own.

"You will be fine." She says, but Molly's voice cracks and she's wearing a watery smile. "It'll all be okay."

Lucy believes her, somewhat.

Now her son is twenty-three and about to marry the girl of his dreams, and Lucy is wearing a teary smile, just as Molly whispers to her, "would you ever undo it?"

"No." She doesn't hesitate to say, "I wouldn't," she says, just as Lorcan Scamander II says,

"I do."

And somewhere beyond this earthly realm, Lorcan Scamander the first is whispering to Lucy, "I love you."

She doesn't have to hear his voice to know he's saying it. "I love you, too," Lucy murmurs so quietly no one catches it.

No one but Lorcan, who always catches it; who always catches her.

rush of blood, oh and a little painon a cloudy day, it's more common than you thinkhe's my first mistake

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